


trick

by Yesitstyles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Proceed with caution, kind of graphic on that front, please read the note at the beginning for cw, there are no warnings that really apply? but, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:43:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6922723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yesitstyles/pseuds/Yesitstyles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><span class="u">This is the trick</span>: it’s got nothing to do with Zayn. </i>
  <br/>
  <i>It’s not about Harry, or the fans, it’s not about the pressures from their team and from the media - this is about Louis and the food in his mouth. Louis and his own body.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>This is Louis’, and his alone. </i>
</p><p>This is a story that is incomplete and out of order, about a boy who is in complete disorder. He carries on regardless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	trick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> CONTENT WARNING:  
> This fic contains one scene in particular which depicts purging and self-punishment, it's quite graphic; that will happen in chapter two. I'll post another note at the start of the chapter, for those who want to skip that scene. 
> 
> Overall, this fic deals with some heavy topics. Louis insists that he doesn't have an eating disorder, but he _does_ exhibit a lot of symptoms of disordered eating. He never meets with a professional about what he goes through, in this fic (maybe he does outside of the story - who knows!) but if any of what he goes through resonates with you, please be aware that Louis' eating habits here are really unhealthy, and he should definitely consider seeking help.
> 
> EDIT: THIS FIC WAS POSTED EARLY, My apologies for the complete mess of a first draft that some people I'm sure encountered. I was told it wouldn't be posted until the end of the month, and may have taken that too literally. This version should be much better, sorry about the mix-up.

**(29.03)**

“They’re saying,” says Niall, and he sounds dampened like they’ve just gotten off stage and their ears haven’t recovered yet, “that Harry found out over the phone morning of.” The click of his fork against his plate is bright and clear in Louis’ ears. 

“The statement?” Louis’ own voice sounds distorted, too. 

“Yeah.”

Louis laughs. 

They’re quiet for a moment. Then Louis says, “‘S it true?” 

Niall himself seems dampened, which is making Louis uncomfortable because Niall’s always the biggest and brightest presence in the room, so he finds himself trying to be louder to fill the vacuum. 

“Is that how Harry heard the news, over the phone? Not from the negotiations or the yelling matches?”

Mostly, the yelling was with handlers, and various members of their management, and a few people from legal, and a handful of pompous industry giants who’ve “seen some things, kid,” or some variation thereof, and could say from prior experience that Zayn was making a big mistake.

(Or that Zayn was doing the right thing - usually then it was Louis doing the yelling, and if he’s honest those were probably the only times anyone really raised their voice. Everything’s been too quiet over the past few months.)

Niall chuckles, because Niall’s always been good at laughing even when things aren’t funny. But then he says, “Dunno,” and Louis has to take a second to realize he’s referring back to the question. And actually, when he thinks of it, Louis’ not sure any of the boys have ever actually said the words out loud to one another. Maybe Zayn did call Harry that morning, and maybe that really was the first time it was said out loud - between band members - that Zayn was leaving.

He and Niall fall into silence, the kind of silence where all parties are too caught up in their thoughts to know what to say. 

“You going to eat that?” Niall asks eventually, and Louis looks down at his plate of breakfast food, which he’d forgotten was in front of him, and twists up his face. 

“Want it?” He pushes his half-eaten waffles across the hotel bed. They don’t look half as appealing on his lap as they did on the menu, or maybe he’s lost his appetite since ordering them. Niall shrugs and accepts it happily enough. 

This is the tric k: It’s not about body image, Louis reminds himself firmly. And whatever it  _ is  _ about, it’s fine, so long as it’s not about his weight. 

 

**(07.04)**

LOUIS TOMLINSON V.S. ZAYN MALIK : LIVE ON TWITTER

It’s not entertainment, and he hates that so many people seem to enjoy the drama. He hates that there’s this divide between Zayn and the rest of the band, that these lines have been drawn, and the whole world is privy to it. He hates that their fans -  _ their _ fans, his and Zayn’s both - have gotten caught in the crossfire, he knows they’re unhappy. But that’s not the worst part. 

The tweets, the article links, the comments on facebook and tumblr when Louis’ built up too much morbid curiosity. 

Zayn Malik, the boy from Bradford. Zayn, one of Louis’ best friends of going on five years, Zayn of  _ bus 1 _ and leaked video fiascos and pushing their handlers too far. It had been the two of them against the world, for a while. 

It sort of aches to think of, now. Late nights after shows, ears ringing and eyes dancing and lungs full of smoke. Conspiring to push the rules, test their contracts, go out dancing in the wrong places and with the wrong people. They’d been united on that front, the bit about liking men. Not that they could do much about it, but at least they had each other. 

But there’s also Za[y]n Malik, half-Pakistani Muslim boy. And Louis’ never been able to follow him there. 

Maybe Zayn never talked about it much. Louis feels, looking back, like it must have come up. He can’t really remember discussing it. They all knew it was there, though, this thing that the media took up to target  _ Zayn _ , specifically. 

So that’s what the worst comments are about, and that’s maybe the worst part of all this. Because, yeah, Louis never made a statement. Not when Zayn was singled out as the token minority, not when twitter went on a rampage about his  _ #freepalestine _ , not once over the years of accusations and insinuations that Zayn might be a terrorist did Louis ever make a public statement. 

Harry makes a sad noise when he looks over Louis' shoulder and sees what he's looking at, and Louis shields his phone protectively. It's too late, though, the damage is done. Harry fixes him with the sad-eyes, and Louis feels guilty like he's really been caught doing something wrong, and wasn't just browsing his own twitter account in his spare time, like any other twenty-something. 

"Is it better to know what they're saying?" Harry's voice is gratingly gentle. Louis scowls, even though he knows Harry means well. 

"What, about Zayn?" Louis asks, flippantly as he can. Harry's sad-eyes intensify. 

"Louis-"

"It's just twitter," he says, entirely unconvincingly, because it's not as if Harry's had an easier time on there than Louis  - if anything, he's had it worse. "It's not like anything they're saying matters."

Harry seems to deflate slightly, and that only makes it worse. It hasn't been very long since Zayn left; Louis' not ready to give up, and he isn't ready for the boys to look so defeated either. Especially not because of Louis. 

"What, do you think I should have done differently?" there's an edge to his tone that makes Hary draw further into himself, and it's not entirely intentional, but Louis doesn't try to dull it either as he bites out, "right, we weren't there for him. None of us were  _ ever _ there to support him, we're the absolute worst bandmates in the world," he scoffs. "As if I should listen to them. They weren't there; I know better than to care what they think."

Louis hates the sad-eyes. Harry's a bleeding heart, and it's driving Louis mad right now. Between his sympathetic expression and the angry teenagers on twitter acting as if they know what happened, what things were like, Louis - 

"I'm going to bed," Louis announces, standing and pocketing his phone, and then he walks off without a backward glance, leaving Harry and his sad-eyes behind him. He doesn't actually go to bed. He scrolls twitter for a few more hours after that, and he tries to think of a response - anything he can say to defend himself, but every time he starts to type something out, he thinks better of it. And then he pulls up his messenger app a few times, as well, and stares at the empty text box for a long time, and he tries to think of an apology that won't sound anything like an apology. But he can't think of that, either, so in the end he just turns off his phone and rolls over without having sent anything.

 

**(03.05)**

This is the trick : There are lines that Louis draws, deep and clear, between  _ a habit  _ and  _ a problem _ . Here are the rules: 

          one,  **This Is Not A Diet** . if he calls it a Diet, then he is Fooling Himself, and if he cannot admit things to himself, then he must have  _ a problem.  _

          two, **Never Throw Up** . he has tried, but that is not part of  _ a habit _ , that is a sign of a  _ problem _ , and louis does not have one of those. 

          three, and this is crucial,  **Take Days Off** . prove that  _ a habit _ is not overwhelming/taking over his life. Every so often, Louis will decide on a day to stop counting, and he can, and he doesn’t exactly like it, but he doesn’t write anything down and he eats what he knows is more than his goal, even without counting. It’s not as hard as he would expect, to not count, even when he eats things he has memorized, because his second slice of toast-with-jam before leaving the house has him feeling shaken even before the orange juice, and he shies away from the numbers as they count up, up, up. 

He eats excruciatingly slowly on those days, and feels uncomfortably full, nauseous with it. But he does it anyways, because this is  _ a habit, _ nothing more. 

“You feeling alright?” Harry asks, frowning at Louis from across the table. They’re at the tall ones with the stools at some café Harry likes, and Louis’ bought a weirdly fancy, organic pizza and is pretending not to be brimming with regret. 

“Sure,” says Louis, taking another bite even though he hasn’t quite finished swallowing the last one. “Why?” he asks, mouth full.

Harry doesn’t frown any less. “You’re eating very slowly,” he says, more slowly than Louis’ teeth, as though trying to puzzle him out. 

Louis forces himself to swallow most of what’s in his mouth. It feels like a lot, feels too solid still. He clears his throat. He shrugs, and tries to make it look casual. “Not very hungry,” he says.

Harry’s frown clears slightly, and with it, Louis relaxes. 

“You eat like a bird, Lou,” says Harry, and Louis smiles and thinks,  _ like a bird _ , pleased at the term. Like Harry’s tattoos; light and fleeting and free.

“You should see me at home,” he lies like butter, smooth. “Never stop snacking.”

Harry laughs. “You don’t look it,” he says, nudging Louis’ knee under the table. 

Louis feels something settle in his stomach, heavier than even the cheese-carbs-fat pizza. “What do you mean?” he asks slowly. 

“Must be healthy snacks,” says Harry, sort of carefully, as though he’s noticed something’s wrong. “The way you talk, and - I’ve seen your cupboards.” He grins. His tone is light and easy, and the knot loosens. “You don’t  _ look _ like you live on junk food, is all.”

“Lucky me,” Louis grins. 

He wishes Harry wouldn’t say that, throwaway comments on how he looks. He doesn’t like to think about how he looks. 

“And what about you, Mister Styles,” he says, for something to say, to pay him back in kind, “you and your growing-boy appetite.  _ You _ don’t look like you could put away that much - kale-quinoa salad,” Louis says, gesturing at Harry’s brimming bowl. 

“This is bulgur tabbouleh,” says Harry, and Louis raises his eyebrows and nods, as though he doesn’t know, because a-year-ago-him never would have. 

“I’ve seen you eat it,” Harry adds, to which Louis shrugs. 

“I eat a lot of things I don’t know.” 

Harry’s lips twitch up. “Don’t eat any white berries, I hope. Or red ones.” Louis rolls his eyes. “Actually,” Harry says, not finished, “you’d better not eat anything off a bush you don’t know.”

“I always steer clear of yellow snow,” says Louis solemnly. “Can’t make any promises about things I find on bushes, though.”

Harry pins him with a mock-severe look, and scoots his stool closer. “You realize,” he says, “your headstone will be terrible. ‘Louis Tomlinson: didn’t watch what he put in his mouth.’” He shakes his head sadly. “That's  tragic.”

Louis can’t hide a smile at the irony of the statement. “You’re right,” he says, “I should be more careful. Ought to watch every bite.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Sure, when those bites’ve got hemlock berries in them.”

“What if I’m immune? Maybe I’m immortal. After all, I’ve gone twenty years of eating just about anything.”

“Nah, think you’re just extremely lucky.”

“Is that how I strike you?” Louis asks, “Lucky?”

Harry stares at Louis consideringly for a moment. “I don’t know, look at where we are. I’d say we can’t have done too badly, yeah?”

 

**(08.05)**

This is the trick : Louis wakes up one morning feeling sick to his stomach because he slept fitfully and didn’t meet his eight-hundred yesterday, and the pride wells up like the terror, like the tears, and it’s such a relief. It’s so refreshing, feeling something less than the crushing worry/exhaustion. 

He goes online again. It’s dim, the morning still very early, the ache in his stomach busting away the tiredness. He sits at the desk by the curtains - closed, to shut out the reminder of how bloody early it is - and in the pale blue glow of his laptop, he goes looking for recipes. 

It’s a funny habit. He doesn’t ever use the recipes, he’s not sure if he gets anything from them at all. But there’s a familiar ritual to this: waking up too early and settling in at the desk, lifting the lid of his laptop to unravel the long hours before sunrise by tapping away at the glowing keyboard, reading through articles about superfoods and healthy recipes. He’s got a lot of people counting on him, is the thing, so if he’s going to watch what he eats he can’t go halfway. Better keep his health up, or he’ll get dizzy in front of his mum or his sisters or Harry or someone important who’ll worry and kick up a fuss. He keeps a pack of water bottles at the desk, too, Vitel, even though the taste makes him grimace. Vitel’s an awful brand of water. He chugs it anyways for the feeling of fullness, and he notices the bitterness less when his stomach is a gaping hole.

If anyone else saw him doing this - if Louis had imagined something like this a year ago, two - he’d have laughed at himself. This isn’t something he enjoys - it’s still not  _ enjoyable _ , per se. But it helps keep his bones still, keeps the crawling, unsettled feeling at bay.  This is the trick: It’s a distraction - like the numbers he counts (up, up, up); like the ache in his stomach, something to think about. Numbers in place of the words spilt on twitter with Zayn a few days ago. When he blinks and sees his fucking twitter feed behind his eyelids, it’s easiest to just fall back to counting. 

 

**(19.06)**

Louis’ not entirely sure if it’s still Friday as they cut over Norway. The sun’s still glowing bright on the horizon as thick clouds roll in beneath the plane, but his eyelids are still stained with the bright lights from the concert. From further up the plane, he can hear Niall exclaiming excitedly at how  _ bright _ it still is, but all Louis wants to do is sleep. He pulls down the blind on his window and curls up into the dark corner between his seat and the wall of the plane, tugging the blanket up around his shoulder. 

“Good show tonight.” Harry jostles Louis a little as he crawls into the next seat, adding a muttered apology as he jostles Louis’ shoulder.

Louis doesn’t open his eyes, just hums noncommittally. Truthfully, he doesn’t remember the concert too well. It’s been a few hours and already the noise and the crowds and the same worn-out numbers have joined the blur of earlier concerts in his memories. 

Harry curls up beside him quietly, long hair tickling the back of Louis’ neck, and that actually wakes Louis up a bit because it’s been a very long time since they’ve curled up like this. He doesn’t move a muscle for what feels like a long time, until he thinks Harry’s probably fallen asleep. As they breathe, Harry’s head shifts, and his hair brushes the exposed nape of Louis’ neck, and he wonders if Harry’s got his ear pressed to Louis’ back, if he can hear Louis’ heartbeat. He used to like curling up with his head to Louis’ ribcage. It’s been a while, though. 

When Louis eventually caves, wriggling out a hand from where it’s curled against his chest to brush at his neck, Harry sighs. As Louis is tugging his tee-shirt higher up, to cover the skin, Harry pulls away. Louis regrets moving at all, his back suddenly cold, and he turns to press it against the seat instead. He pulls his knees up and tucks the blanket under his toes so that it stretches over him like a tent. 

Harry blinks sleepily at him from his seat, but he doesn’t move when Louis nudges his toes against his warm thigh. Eventually, Harry says, “I’ve missed you,” and he nudges his shoulder into Louis’. 

Maybe Louis’ lost his touch with all things Harry, because he smiles a bit bemusedly and says, “I’m right here.” He thinks he might’ve taken the comment in stride, he can imagine the surge of affection he used to feel when Harry would say something weird like that. But right now, all he feels is sleepy and confused.

Maybe that’s the point. Harry sighs. 

After a while, he says, “Ever wonder…” but he trails off.

“Wonder what?” Louis prompts. 

“D’you ever wonder if maybe this was the first, like, symptom?” Harry gestures vaguely, possibly between the two of them. “When we...y’know, when we stopped being. Like, best friends, or whatever.” 

This isn’t something that Louis really wants to talk about. “No.” He’s blunt, but honest. “I think we drifted apart, and it had nothing to do with anything, or anyone, except us.” Harry looks sad, and in the dim light of the plane, Louis has to look away. “It’s not like we stopped talking. We made other friends. We never stopped liking each other, did we?”

“Well...no,” Harry admits. 

“Well, then. We didn’t make Zayn leave,” says Louis, and even though he’s really the one who’s brought Zayn up, he feels an unexpected surge of irritation. “It’s not all about Zayn,” he goes on, suddenly biting, “and he’s got nothing to do with anything. Zayn left, that happened. We moved to new flats and made new friends, that happened, too. There’s no  _ bigger picture _ , there’s nothing to  _ analyze _ .” His voice has risen from the low, sleepy tone of before, but a well of frustration rises in him, at Harry, at Zayn, who haunts their conversations and their memories like he’s got any right to matter, after everything. All the bullshit drama.

Harry pulls back. “I know,” he says, placatingly, and his eyes are sorry and Louis suddenly feels the anger and frustration and hurt drain out of him, and he’s left sitting curled up on an airplane next to his old best friend, feeling nothing but the tired post-concert ache of his muscles and the quiet rumbling of the plane. 

“I just think,” Harry tries eventually, “maybe - like, if we’d stayed the same…”

The blanket is too warm now, a little bit stifling. “Yeah, of course. It’s not everybody else that changed everything.” Everybody else - the media, their team, their fans, friends, family - they’d all had an impact, but they hadn’t made the decision to leave. “We changed,” Louis says tiredly, eyes slipping closed. He just wants to sleep. “It happens. It happens to everyone, happened to us. No one’s fault.” 

“But maybe - we could’ve tried, harder than we did,” Harry presses.

Louis shrugs. “Not really, no. We couldn’t’ve.” He thinks he believes it, too. It doesn’t matter, anyways - the what-if’s won’t change what happened, nothing can change it. What’s done is done. 

This is the trick: it’s got nothing to do with Zayn. 

It’s not about Harry, or the fans, it’s not about the pressures from their team and from the media - this is about Louis and the food in his mouth. Louis and his own body. Zayn left, and the band is on shaky ground, and yes. Louis is struggling to cope with that. But  _ this _ \- the low, constant ache in his stomach like the hum of the fridge - this is Louis’, and his alone. 

  
  


**(21.06)**

This is the trick : Louis is always hungry. it gnaws like something teething, gummy but sharp, relentless, until it dulls into static white noise . He wants to talk about it. Sometimes he has to press down the urge to pull out his phone or pull up a chat window and say something about it.  _ I feel so hollow. / God, I want to eat. / Didn’t even meet my goal yesterday, proud but also hungry :/ _

He doesn’t even mean it in an attention-seeking way. His hunger is so habitual, he just wants to share it, and he has to remind himself that it isn’t usual, it isn’t relatable, it will actually raise some very big red flags if he tries to talk about it.

So he doesn’t.

 

**(--.--)**

Time blurs. 

The days blend, like summers used to - without a Monday-to-Friday schedule, it’s hard to keep track of things. Not as if Louis ever has to anymore. 

This is the trick : the numbers keep counting up, bread, salad, energy drink to keep his feet flat on stage. Other numbers - dates, hours, the numbers of boys he sees on the regular; other measurements - cups of tea, phone calls home, the gradual exaggeration of the dizziness as hunger builds up - lose meaning as well. 

It still hurts, of course it hurts. But the hunger and the dizziness - they’re self-pitying hurt. He doesn’t hate himself for them. People can’t do much worse, maybe, than he’s done to himself.

That thought Louis pushes down and away, not worth turning over too much. 

 

**(11.08)**

It’s weird, and Louis’ dead irritated by his own reaction, but when Niall starts a body-positive twitter trend Louis feels almost offended. It sits uncomfortably somewhere in the back of his skull until he develops a headache from it that doesn’t go away until he pops three advil before dressing for the charity ball. It’s definitely fueled by the stress of the event, as well; Louis’ been worrying over the details all week, and he’s not doing much more than throw money at the cause. It’s the least he can do. 

It’s easier after the advil. It gets easier when Jay rings at the door, already dressed up beautifully, ready to accept Louis’ lift. It gets easier when Liam’s there on the red carpet, and they fall into step together and go through the familiar motions - step - smile -  _ flash _ \- and offer the familiar greetings. 

And then they enter the ball, and that’s easy, too: the way that small faces light up reminds him of what he’s doing with his life, with his job, with his money. 

There are hors d'oeuvres, of course. Louis snags a glass of sparkling apple juice, because this is a children’s charity, and he nurses it for most of the start of the evening instead of snacking. His numbers get derailed as his mood is bolstered by the infectious mood of the dance - and this is the brightest spot he’s been in all week, maybe all month. He doesn’t remember much of July, actually. He tries not to dwell on that. He takes another small hand, feels the burning rush of affection flood his lungs at the tiny smile and the tight grip, and  _ breathes. _

The night’s wound down when Louis bumps into Liam in the toilet. Liam’s standing by the sink, facepaint beginning to smudge, drawn-on tiger rumpled at the brow as he frowns at his phone. 

Neither of them says anything, though Liam looks up at the door opening. Liam doesn’t move, and Louis doesn’t ask why he’s stood in the loo staring at an apple product like it’s wounded him. He just does his business at the urinal, and goes to the free sink, and lets Liam stare as glumly as he wants at the dark screen of his phone. 

It’s not until Louis’ drying his hands on a fresh linen towel that Liam says, “Zayn called me.”

Louis dumps the towel in the bin and Liam turns to lean back on the marble counter, slipping the phone away. 

Louis raises his eyebrows in a Cool and Unruffled manner. “Just now?” 

Liam’s hand raises, he rubs his jaw. “No - earlier. While we were at the ball.”

Louis tactfully refrains from pointing out that the timing was probably deliberate. “Did he leave a message?” He leans his hip against the counter for a second. It’s wet; he straightens quickly.

Almost furtively, Liam’s teeth find his thumbnail. He’s been mostly free of the habit for years, but it’s come back a bit this summer. Louis can’t blame him.

In the quiet of the bathroom, Liam says, “Just a missed call.” then, “I bite my nails too much,” and puts his hand down. He’s got a bit of a painful looking bit of hangnail still.

Louis’ thumb finds dead skin in the corners of his fingernails and he digs in, as though it’s a competition.

“Maybe he’ll call back,” Louis suggests. 

“Yeah.” Liam nods like he believes it. The tiger doesn’t smooth out. 

Louis feels a burn in his lungs, and this time it’s not affection but anger - it floods his chest and snatches his breath and he grips the edge of the counter furiously. “Why the fuck do you still care?” He bites out, and Liam’s head snaps over, his eyes blown wide. “He isn’t worth our time. Shit, Liam.” Suddenly feeling mean, Louis holds eye contact for a long moment. “You know,” he speaks eventually, “that Zayn knew you’d be busy when he called. Fuck him.”

Saint Liam holds his frown and lets out a long breath, as though letting all the nasty words spill right back out of him, and he doesn’t get mad even though Louis’ there seething. “You know he’s not the only-”

“He sure as hell isn’t innocent.”

Liam just sighs again. 

“Sorry,” says Liam after a moment. 

Louis presses his fingertips to his eyes. He pushes until he sees spiralling triangles form weird patterns, and the anger drains out and he’s left, empty, standing at the bathroom counter. “No, I’m-  _ I’m _ sorry. That was a dick thing to say.” He swallows. He thinks about saying more, but he can’t find any more words. He’s dry. 

Liam exhales and it sounds a bit like a shaky laugh. 

“We all get it,” he says. “It’s been rough. I get it.”

 

**(12.08)**

Maybe it’s not the twelfth. It might be past midnight. It  _ was  _ the twelfth when Louis got here, already dizzy with hunger and jet lag. The flight from London to L.A. is always tiring, it feels like jumping dimensions. Different worlds. 

Louis is two sips into his third drink - something sparkling, bright colours and high numbers but he’s dizzy and tired and he doesn’t  _ care _ \- when he spots Zayn across the room. He’d know those legs anywhere, that’s the first thing he recognizes. Zayn’s hair has been changing constantly lately (Louis is always seeing that hair out of the corner of his eyes, and then remembering that Zayn’s latest haircut is something completely different). And the tattoos aren’t on display, hidden under a black shirt. But Louis sees the beanstalk legs, and thinks,  _ it’s Zayn _ , and before he quite has the chance to second-guess himself, the crowd’s shifted and Zayn’s face comes into view. 

 

It has been a long time, now, since Louis last saw Zayn. Months. They haven’t talked in that long, haven’t run into each other anywhere, and Louis’ thought about it. Of course he has. But, fuck, not like this. It can’t go like this.

“Louis  _ Tomlinson!”  _

Jovial, friendly tone. It cuts through Louis’ panic, and he turns to greet the older man who’s sidled up beside him -  _ someone _ in the business, they’ve definitely worked together before, Louis’ sure of it. 

“Hey! Hi, alright?” The lump in his throat catches his words, and his eyes ache. 

The guy nods. “Yeah. Great, thanks. How’s it feel to be back in America?” He’s American himself. There, two things Louis knows about him. 

“Yeah, er, good. I mean, jet lag,” he laughs, and the guy laughs knowingly along with him. Louis grins broadly and wishes all the room dead. “But it’s alright. Just need a bit of a chance to unwind.” He gestures to the room at large, and the drink in his hand sloshes dangerously. 

The guy laughs, and - ah, there’s a skip in Louis’ awareness, and now he knows he’s  _ really _ drunk. 

 

The thing about drinking on an empty stomach is this: Louis always,  _ always _ comes to regret it. It happens all the time, and he always swears he’s learnt his lesson. No more drinking. Eating more, that’s a stupid option. So he’ll cut back on the alcohol. 

Only, one drink in, he always remembers that his tolerance  _ used _ to be a lot higher. 

He makes it through his third drink before the room really starts spinning. Or maybe Louis’ the one spinning. It’s not fun anymore, by that point, if it ever was. Louis tries to count the numbers, but three mysterious sweet drinks make him cringe, and he thinks better of  _ that _ plan. 

 

Things happen in snatches: dancing a bit, stealing sips from other people’s cups - the drinks are being served on the other side of the room, too far to reach. He goes out to the balcony at some point, fresh air washing over him and making his stomach pause in its revolt. He considers getting another drink. 

At some point, he thinks he speaks to Zayn. Or maybe Zayn speaks to him. Louis doesn’t remember, the night too fragmented.

**Author's Note:**

> A world of thanks to my lovely betas, who I'll name once my authorship has been revealed. 
> 
> The prompt I received was this: "Louis is still reeling from the shock of Zayn leaving the band. He keeps himself busy with reversals and the OTRA tour. He begins skipping meals and working himself into ground to try and distract him from the hurt of Zayn leaving, he was the closest to him after all. Harry notices Louis demise and enlists in the help of the others to pull him out of the dangerous path he's headed."
> 
> I did deviate somewhat from the original prompt. Ultimately, this is a story about Louis saving himself. Personally, I think it's very important to have stories that focus on this: because Louis can't be 'saved' by the power of friendship or love. Those things are much better realized as symptoms of improvement, rather than the causes of. They're super important, and I hope that comes across as well! But you can't save people by loving them. It's really important to strive for happiness your yourself, and by your own will. 
> 
> If anyone has any questions, or any concerns about the way I dealt with topics in this fic, please leave a comment!


End file.
